Learning 'Lock
by kaeyes
Summary: A series of one-shots in which John teaches the good detective a thing or two. Turns out Sherlock Holmes isn't too gifted when it comes to driving, cooking, swimming, enjoying birthdays...well, the list goes on. But the lessons seem to teach John more than anything. Set between "The Woman" and "Hounds of Baskerville." Rated Y just for safety.
1. Driving Lessons

This was stupid.

The demand had come, quite literally, out of nowhere. In fact, the good detective didn't know John was home that afternoon. Sherlock had decided that dissecting a cow's stomach in the kitchen sink, despite the presence of John's leftovers, was a good idea. The doctor entered the kitchen to complain about yet _another_ burnt hole in the carpet—not to mention a _ferret_ running loose in the bathroom—when he noticed the bull's blood on his pasta.

"That's it," he said, slamming down his newspaper and grabbing the knife out of Sherlock's hand. "You're learning how to drive."

Sherlock wasn't sure what the connection was between his "bad" behavior and this punishment; apparently, he deduced later, John wanted him to learn the trade, and guilt was not above his persuasion techniques.

Not that Sherlock felt guilty about any of it. It was all for science. John knew that.

He'd been able to delay the training for two weeks; now, though, John had promised him a relaxing trip to the morgue for more riding crop experiments. Liar. He drove instead to an abandoned parking lot several miles out of London.

"We don't need this car," he whined as John switched seats with him.

John glared. "I'm tired of paying cab fare. We're doing well; we can afford the luxury for now." Somewhere along the way, the men's bank accounts merged. Probably, John thought, because Sherlock didn't want to waste time with bills and paperwork. The good doctor rarely splurged, but when he did, he splurged on a black SUV with tinted windows and a license plate that read "221B."

Sherlock snarled, failing to see the luxury in such items. Cars required money, yes, but more importantly they were time consuming. He didn't want to fill the gas tank or…well, what else did one do with a car? He wasn't sure, but he didn't want to find out.

"The pedal to your right is the brake," John explained, ignoring the looks and sounds flung his way. "The one next to it is the accelerator. Got it? Buckle up first, now. You know better."

"John. Important stuff alone goes into my hard drive."

"A little knowledge about the solar system saved a child's life and led us to Moriarty," John snapped back. "Driving may prove just as useful."

"That's why I'm learning this? On the off-chance that someone's life is saved?"

"No, you're learning this so we save money and I don't have to be your chauffer any longer," John retorted, slightly guilt-ridden by the lie. Cab fare wasn't too dreadful and chauffeuring wasn't much different that riding alongside Sherlock; either way, he was meant to keep quiet and let the genius think. No, if John was truly honest, he would have admitted that he was afraid that Sherlock would one day need a quick escape from criminal masterminds. If his best friend died from automobile ignorance, John wouldn't know what to do with himself.

"Just give it a go," John said, leaning back in his seat. Sherlock was smart. Sixteen year-olds drove every day. It would be a short lesson.

Sherlock slammed on the accelerator. John bit his lip. "Okay, first, don't smash it down. Gentle. Second, you have to put it in drive first."

"Drive?"

John moved the knob to the red-highlighted "D" and cleared his throat.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock released his foot from the brake and, rather timidly, touched the pedal. "Is this alright?" he asked as they inched along the parking lot.

"That'll do. See that pole up there? Try turning around it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That's all you want?"

Twenty-seven seconds later, Sherlock was avoiding eye contact and John was examining a bright yellow dent on the hood.


	2. Swimming Lessons

This was stupid.

Sherlock looked out on the lake, glared at John, and sat in silent defeat. It wasn't his fault he'd nearly drowned four days earlier chasing after a suspicious swimmer (who turned out to be just some swimmer). Only a few yards in, Sherlock's mind and body suddenly reminded him that he could not and would not swim, and he began going under.

John tried to run in and lead the rescue mission, but—to Sherlock's dismay—Anderson was an excellent swimmer and beat him to it. The detective won't admit it, but he carefully considered beating Anderson off and fending for himself. But had he survived (on the off chance), the good doctor would have finished him off.

Really, if _he_ admitted it, John didn't want to be standing on a hot lake beach with a moody detective, either. Sherlock probably didn't need to learn the trick, but there was always a chance that a criminal would plunge into the waters. Both men knew that, possessing the ability or not, Sherlock would follow. Learning was for the best.

Sherlock's shirt stayed on after he'd taken it off and John made some crack about his porcelain skin cracking in the sun. The man still looked comical; his trunks were a good two sizes too big and displayed four bright-orange fish chasing each other in a dark blue ocean (they were the cheapest ones he could find). His sunglasses, then, didn't look too bad, but raccoon eyes were already forming.

"I don't see why you're shy about getting in now," John said with no shortness of sass. "You weren't hesitant a few days ago."

"Adrenaline, John. It's a powerful thing. This, this is preposterous."

"Hush. Now go on."

"Well aren't you going to teach me?" Sherlock asked, crinkling his nose.

"My father taught me by throwing me overboard. I could get a boat, if you'd like."

"Unnecessary." Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped in the water. Cold, grimy, opaque liquid. What had he been thinking the other day? He was sure that the swimmer was a tie to the Albanian trafficking ring; something in his stomach just told him so. No deduction. No reason. Something, something inside him made him stop the cab, abandon John, run a good fourth mile, and plunge into the lake. It took mere seconds for him to panic at his mistake.

Other than four days ago, he'd been in the water twice. The last time was right after the pool incident with Moriarty. Sherlock returned to the pool to see if he could extract any evidence. He found nothing and, lost in his mind palace, ended up walking right off the ledge and into the chlorine-infested goo. He scrambled out, soaked, and stayed out of 221B until he was completely calm and dry.

The first time was when he was nineteen, alone, addicted, and inbred with a terrible fear of drowning. It would be the perfect way to…well. Had Mycroft not shown up, Sherlock wouldn't be here.

John, now impatient, walked up to the shore. "Don't think I won't throw you in. We have things to do, Sherlock, and I'm not going to wait all—" John stopped as he saw two tears hiding in Sherlock's eyes.

He walked away, grabbed the orange shock blanket—he'd kept it, of course, ever since the pill suicide case—and put it around the detective's shoulders. It was the only blanket he'd ever use without a fight. "Okay. We can try later. Come on." He led his friend away and sat him on the sand. "It's fine. We're done for the day."

To this day, the good doctor thinks Sherlock is just really, really stubborn and somewhat afraid of water. Sherlock plans on telling him the truth later. Maybe. At least, if he tells anyone, it'll be John.


	3. Cooking Lessons

It was a week before Christmas Eve when Dr. John Watson decided Sherlock Holmes would learn how to cook.

Too long had the doctor prepared meal after meal, not only for Sherlock but for the few guests 221B ever had over. Sherlock had never made anything, not even a cup of tea or coffee (though later he'd make decent tea for his arch enemy and drugged coffee for an experiment, but John won't count either of those, not ever).

"I promised Mrs. Hudson we'd help her with Christmas dinner," John pleaded. "I don't want you to make things worse."

"Then I simply won't come," Sherlock said, strumming on his violin. He looked out the window and sighed. He hated the snow. It made people sing and dance and talk to random strangers. "Really, John, you shouldn't make promises you can't keep."

The doctor bit his lip and sat across from the detective. "Won't it be nice to help out?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John tried again. "Pick a dish, then. Just one to help with."

"I'll bring crackers."

"No you won't."

"No, true, you're the one who likes going to the store. You won't mind? We need milk, too, by the way." Sherlock played a quick tune and then set his instrument aside. Bored.

"I _do_ mind, Sherlock. I have to go to the store because you refuse." He tried handing Sherlock a list, was ignored, and threw it instead.

Sherlock sighed audibly, dramatically, and picked up the list. "I can't cook any of this, John."

"That's why I'm going to teach you."

He laughed and stood. "Now that is a route I'd prefer not to take. Remember when you tried to teach me golf? Said it'd be fun, hmm?"

John pushed the memory away and felt the bruise on his thigh. "It's a practical skill to have."

"Practical is boring." Sherlock moved from the chair to the couch and threw his lanky body over the cushions. "Remember my hard drive, John. This isn't important."

John tried once more. "If you help," he said slowly, "I won't get you a present."

Sherlock looked up. Over the last few holidays, the doctor had tried to get him the perfect gift…and failed every time. No, another deerstalker wasn't entertaining, and no, he didn't need a jumper. The test tubes weren't the brand he liked, nor was the twelve-pack of fire extinguishers amusing. The one thing Sherlock was grateful for was that John still hadn't figured out when his birthday was.

"Deal."

The two men made their way to the kitchen. John sighed and Sherlock grinned at the mess; tubes, liquids, papers, and unidentifiable tools were strewn everywhere. "Before I open it, have you put anything alarming in the fridge?"

Sherlock thought a moment. "Are eels alarming?"

"Out. Along with the rest of your stuff here," John demanded. The detective began to argue but the doctor wouldn't have it. An hour and twelve minutes later, the room was spotless and, for the first time, looked like an actual kitchen.

"Right," John said, grinning. "Now, what _can_ you cook?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Okay. Well, that won't be a problem. We'll start basic."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock, covered in flour, threw off his coat and headed for the door. "That's it!" he cried. "I'm finished! I don't know what you're trying to prove, but this isn't working."

John emerged equally as dirty. "What am I trying to prove? Sherlock, I'm trying to teach you—"

"No you're not; you're making it difficult on purpose. I can tell. It's not that hard. It can't be. People do it every day. Why are you making it more complicated? To prove that I'm stupid?"  
John began yelling back but stopped and calmed himself. "Sherlock," he said, quietly, "I'm not making it complicating. I'm not trying to prove that you're stupid, okay, but you know—you know—that simple things come harder to you. Yes? Cooking isn't easy for everyone. You're not an idiot. If you don't get it right away, it's fine. We'll work on it."

Sherlock shook his head and opened the door. "Don't bother." With a slam, he was gone.

John cleared his throat and finished preparing. They'd only been making chocolate chip cookies; he'd picked the recipe partially because it was simple and, then, because Sherlock could eat cookies like there was no tomorrow—though he wouldn't admit it—and John wanted that because Sherlock hadn't eaten, again, in four days.

He set them on a plate in the living room and waited with a newspaper, knowing that Sherlock hadn't left the building. He was probably right outside the door, actually. He hated snow. Wouldn't leave the building unless it was on fire—and even that was debatable.

A timid knock came from the door, and John smiled as it slowly opened. Sherlock was shivering, only dressed in a purple shirt and gray pants.

"You actually left?"

Sherlock sat himself on the couch and cuddled into an orange blanket. "I locked myself out. Mrs. Hudson had to let me back in, but she didn't hear until she'd turned off the television."

John tried not to smile and offered him a treat. He accepted. "You're an idiot, you know that?" he asked.

Sherlock let a smile escape from his lips and took a bite. "Yeah. I know."


	4. Fetching Lessons

Sherlock wasn't afraid of dogs. He just didn't like them.

He looked down and growled at the smiling thing on the floor. His feet were pulled up and he was clutching his knees to his chest; John thought it was funny, but of course he didn't say anything. He never did. Instead, the doctor whistled, and the mutt came over for a treat.

"Why is it here?" Sherlock seethed.

"Well it was all alone on the street," John said sadly. He hoped the emotion would get Sherlock's approval, but it didn't. "Mrs. Hudson's alright with us keeping him, you know."

"You talked to Mrs. Hudson about it? Goodness, John, we're not keeping the thing."

"Come on, Sherlock, it'll be fun." John held up the dog and made a puppy face. It was a beagle, just out of puppyhood, that he'd found in the alley behind Speedy's. He fell in love with it instantly. "You're home alone a lot, you know. I'm at the clinic or on a date and you're…well, I'm not sure what you do, but I know you talk to me even though I'm away. Now you could talk to him. Mrs. Hudson did take away your skull, after all."

Sherlock scowled and eyed the thing. Mycroft had a dog. It was an ugly brute, trained to bite at any threatening situation. He still had a scar on his ankle. "You want me to take care of him?"

"You could learn," John said. He handed over the puppy; Sherlock froze and let the creature nearly fall to the floor. John caught it and situated it carefully on Sherlock's lap. "See? He likes you. It's not hard, you know. You take him outside to do him business, and you feed him every once in a while. You can play together, see?" He held up a small tennis ball. "He'll love it."

Sherlock took the ball and looked at it curiously. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

John stared blankly. "You play fetch, Sherlock."

"Fetch? Well I've already fetched it, haven't I?"

Clearing his throat, John grabbed the ball at waved it in front of the dog's face. Excited, it jumped down as John through it across the flat, and immediately returned it to its owner. "Fetch. See?" He bit his tongue. _The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how to play fetch._

Sherlock pried the ball from the dog's mouth and grimaced at the gathering saliva. "Oh, John, the thing's a drooling idiot."

"You can dissect bodies but you can't handle a dog's spit." John shook his head and grabbed the dog. "We're keeping it. He's not stupid, Sherlock, he's just a puppy. What shall we name him?"

Sherlock thought for a moment before his eyes flickered. "Anderson."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Come on, I've always wanted a dog. My dad would never let me have one. Haven't you always wondered what it would be like to have a pet?"

"What purpose does a pet have?"

John shrugged in frustration. "I don't know, Sherlock, it's just there. It keeps you company; it keeps boredom away. It's something you take care of and, in a weird way, it takes care of you. Yeah, sometimes it pees on the carpet, but you love it anyway."

Sherlock took the dog and opened the door.

"What are you doing?"

"We're taking it to the pound."

"Why? Didn't you just hear what I said?"

"Of course I did." Sherlock began walking out the door. "A pet sounds lovely, but from the sound of it, I think you've already got one." He looked at John and raised his left eyebrow. "But I won't fetch."


	5. Hugging Lessons

221B, for Sherlock, was a cage. Yes, it could be home, when John or a case was distracting, but most days, the flat was suffocating. Stagnant. Walls bound up his mind as much as his body. The only reason he didn't often leave was because, just down those stairs and out that door, there were _people_.

John knew this well and tried—more often than he'd admit—to get Sherlock fresh air. It rarely worked unless he made a very specific, planned argument.

"Let's go out, hmm?"

"No, don't bother."

"Well, I for one am bored. Maybe I'll invite Mycroft over."

They were out the door in less than two minutes.

Sometimes they would go to Speedy's, or the morgue, but the weather was perfect and the park was a few minutes' walk away. Sherlock agreed, only on the terms of being able to read pedestrians who walked by. The doctor quickly agreed, knowing he'd do so either way.

"Gay," Sherlock said before they'd sat down. John sighed; the park was teaming with parents playing with giggling children, couples joining arm with arm, and old men feeding demanding squirrels. A picture perfect day would quickly, he knew, turn into a show.

"Cheating."

"You can do that all you'd like, but I had hoped we'd also carry on a conversation."

Sherlock reached for his absent scarf and pretended to crease his shirt when it wasn't there. He looked over at John and ignored the amused grin. "Go on, then." He looked away for a moment. "Lawyer. A pretty poor one, too, I'd bet."

"I think it may be best if we sat out a few cases," John said, looking the other direction at several birds chasing one another.

Sherlock waited until he received eye contact. "Why? I've been doing well."

John debated bringing up Adler but decided against it. "I don't know. We just haven't stopped, you know. I thought a vacation might be good. And we're doing well, financially speaking. I figured—"

"I've never taken a vacation in my life, John. I don't plan on it now." Sherlock cleared his throat, considering bringing up the fact that John wouldn't bring up Adler—which was what this was _clearly_ about—but decided against it. "Besides, it sounds awfully boring."

John dropped it. "See that couple over there? Explain." He pointed to a man, probably in his thirties, and a woman, a few years younger, sitting near an oak tree. John couldn't tell what, exactly, was going on, but Sherlock's skill had long ago served his curiosity. No longer did he have to wonder; he could know.

"There?" Sherlock frowned and watched the couple for a few seconds. He didn't mind the challenges. Deducing from a distance was…well, not boring. "Dating, obviously. I'd say for about, oh, three months, going by her sweater." John would have asked for an explanation, but he knew better than to interrupt. Besides, Sherlock was starting to enjoy teaching him. "It's his. Only new lovers do that, typically. They're not exactly fighting; you understand. She's mad…no, disappointed. No! It's grief." Sherlock smiled. "She's lost someone close to her. Maybe just a job, but I'd bet a person."

The doctor and detective watched as the couple's gestures became more pronounced, the girl shied away, began crying, and hugs were exchanged. Sherlock sighed and turned away.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Sherlock began looking for a new specimen. "See over there? Purple hat? Mother of five."

"No, but…we weren't finished with the couple."

He rolled his eyes and let himself lean on the back of the park bench. "I don't understand."

John's ears perked. "The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand something?"

"Oh shut up. I doubt you do either. Why do people do that?"

"Do what?"

"_That_."

"You…you mean hug?"

Sherlock cringed at the word.

"Oh knock it off, won't you? I know you pretend not to have a heart, but be rational. You know what a hug is."

"Of course I know what it is. That doesn't mean I have to understand it."

John bit his lip, holding back sarcasm. Sherlock truly wanted to understand; for once, the doctor would be the teacher. "Alright, you're right. Now look. It's…well…" How to describe a hug? "When you embrace someone, you know…like that…you're vulnerable. They can feel you. Smell you. Hurt you, even. But they don't because it's not violent; it's trust. It's one person saying to the other, 'Yes, I care about you, I'm here for you.' It's letting your physical body be a sort of assurance." John cleared his throat, aware he was rambling. "I don't know. Being in someone's arms, they're the only thing that can hurt you. But they won't. So, really, it's the safest thing in the world."

Sherlock studied John for a moment and looked away. "How do you…um…how do you do it?"

"What, you've never been hugged before?"

Sherlock looked back many years to remember the last time—was it when he was nineteen, when Mycroft…well, when Mycroft was there?—but he said nothing and didn't look at John.

"Right, I mean…it's fine." John cleared his throat again and looked around, suddenly feeling rather awkward. "Well, one person puts his arms around the other—"

Sherlock turned around sharply. "How?"

John swallowed, thought a moment, and stood. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and his eyes filled with terror, but John motioned with his head for him to stand. Sherlock did, hesitantly, and looked at the doctor intensely.

"I don't know how."

"It's fine."

"We're in public."

"Sherlock."

John put out his arms and waited. Sherlock stared as though a two-headed snake had just landed in front of him. But John waited.

Sherlock looked around. No one was paying much attention. He looked at John and took a step forward. Then another. He put his arms around John, and John put his arms around him. The doctor's head lay perfectly on the detective's chest; he could feel a small _puh-puh, puh-puh_ of his heart.

Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat, too, and it scared him. Because one day that heart would stop beating, and then…then who was there to get him through the day? He tried to let go of the thought when he felt the doctor's warmth and, really, when he felt how relaxed John was. He realized how tense his body was and tried to relax his own, but the thought of John's heart…well, it was too much.

He pulled away quickly; John nearly fell but caught himself, noticing the tears in Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, already walking back to 221B. He belonged in the cage. "I'm not good at this, either."

John didn't go home, at first. Sherlock was a man of space. When he did return, the lights were off and he heard the soft murmur of the shower.

He placed his keys on the table and knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock, I'm home. You okay?" No answer. But that was expected. He went to the kitchen, starving and looking for a distraction.

When John returned to the living room, the shower was still running. Yet a soaking wet detective, wearing only a deep purple towel, suddenly clung to his body as though life itself depended upon it.

"Is this right?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled and hugged his best friend back. How many years of abuse, neglect, and mockery had this man gone through before anyone cared enough to show acceptance, compassion? And how lucky was he, John Watson, to be the man to show the great Sherlock Holmes care?

"Yes," he said, letting his face touch the white, damp chest. "Yes, that's just fine."


	6. Birthday Lessons

John figured it out.

Sherlock had gone through arduous trouble to keep his birthday hidden from John. His birth certificate and other documents were in a safety deposit box across London; he bought Mycroft a new umbrella in exchange for silence. His driver's license never left his body, and when he slept, he hid it somewhere new every night.

But here they were, February 26th, and Sherlock's birthday was tomorrow. John had only found out a few months before, when he'd paid someone to intentionally anger the detective.

"I'm a proper genius, too."

"I doubt it. How do you know John?"

"We were in Afghanistan together. I can prove it, if you'd like."

"I can tell by your stance that you've been to the Middle East."

"No, that I'm a proper genius."

"Fine. Show me."

"Your birthday is in June. Am I wrong?"

Sherlock's smirk was defined and his head was held high as he pulled out his license and revealed the true date. He gave John the silent treatment for four days when he realized he'd been tricked.

"Are you excited?" John asked, looking at his watch. The birthday was only nine hours away.

"I do wish you'd call it off."

"You're going to learn how to enjoy this, Sherlock, even if it kills you."

Sherlock scowled and sat in his chair. "At least tell me what you've got planned."

"It's a surprise."

"Do I have to go?"

"Sherlock."

He sighed and stretched his lanky body to its limit. John opened his newspaper and drank his tea, ignoring any and all glares or pleas. Eventually, the detective fell asleep, all the more distracting because of his snoring.

John sighed and began cleaning up. Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson would be over tomorrow night. Nothing fancy. They'd enjoy dinner (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson), have some wine (thanks to Lestrade), and have cake (prepared by Molly). John knew, of course, that Sherlock would hate it. The detective hated food—which seemed to be what birthdays were centered around nowadays—and despised small talk. No one could ever figure out what to gift him, either. Not that it made much difference. Sherlock usually knew what the present was before it was out of the box. That was the only fun part, John guessed.

But he had a sneaky suspicion that Sherlock never had a birthday party before. Mycroft confirmed it, explaining that birthdays were viewed as "wasteful" during their childhood and spent as any other day. Even if they had been celebrated, John figured Sherlock wouldn't have enjoyed them. But he wanted to give him that. Just one party in his honor.

Sherlock slept from five that night until one the next afternoon. John found him sprawled out in the same position, still snoring and clutching a fist in annoyance.

He placed a blanket over the detective. The party wouldn't start for a few hours. The longer he was unconscious, the better. Sherlock hadn't slept in a few days, either, which was normal but still unhealthy.

John began to walk away but turned around. He felt Sherlock's forehead. Boiling. Palms were sweaty, hair was mopped, and nose was red. Great.

"Sherlock." John shook the detective gently and crouched next to him. Sherlock's eyes opened slowly. "Hey, do you feel okay?"

Before the question was out of John's mouth, Sherlock began coughing. "Alright, come on."

"I'm fine. Get off." Sherlock pushed John away and burrowed into the blanket.

John forced a thermometer into his mouth. 103. "Oh, Sherlock. Come on, now, you've got to get to bed."

Sherlock looked at his watch. "I've been sleeping for…what, ten hours?"

"More like twenty. You've never…hey, hey!" John caught Sherlock as he tried to stand and failed. "Alright, time for bed. Go on; yeah, lean over. There you go…no…wait." The detective couldn't stand well enough with help; John sighed, buckled down his knees, and picked Sherlock up bridal-style.

Sherlock stared in fascination, too shocked to protest. A few steps later, John dropped him on the bed and turned out the lights. "I don't know how you do it, Sherlock. Don't think you're off the hook. We'll have your party next week."

Sherlock groaned and, after a few coughs, vomited on the other side of the bed. John patted him on the back and went to the bathroom for towels.

He came back a few seconds later with a needle. "What's this?"

Sherlock looked up and wiped sweat from his forehead. "What?"

John threw the syringe. "_This_, Sherlock. I'm a doctor, you know. You got this from St. Bart's?"

"I've never seen that before in my life."

John crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "You injected yourself with the flu to get out of having a birthday party."

Sherlock cleared his throat and crawled into the covers. "Really, John, you shouldn't treat a patient with just distrust. I thought better of you." John didn't move, though, and Sherlock was too weak to argue. "Well you wouldn't listen. I don't want one."

The doctor left. Sherlock sighed, thinking him gone, and sprawled over the bed. He felt awful (physically; his conscience was clean), but it was worth it. John returned with a small, blue box and handed it over.

"What's this?"

"Your present."

"I don't—"

"Sherlock, take it or I'll smash your skull." John shook his head. "The one on the mantle, just to clarify."

The detective took the box and unwrapped it. A key fell out.

"What's it for?"

"It was Mycroft's key to our flat. He's promised not to stop by for the next month."

Sherlock felt the key's ridges and smiled. "John, I'm…impressed."

"Are you?" John took the key back and placed it in his pocket. "Hmm. Too bad he'll have to come by and make sure you're feeling well."

"What?"

"Well, there were conditions to our agreement, of course. If you're in danger or violently ill, he's allowed to check up on you. As your doctor, I'd say you fit that description."

John patted Sherlock on the head and walked to the door. "If you need anything, just shout."

Sherlock cursed as the door shut.


	7. Driving Lessons (Again)

They would try again.

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked at the wheel before him. Yes, they were trying again—but it was the seventh attempt and Sherlock didn't feel any more confident than he had before starting. If John were completely honest, he wasn't feeling too safe, either. It was beginning to rain, Sherlock was more moody than usual, and neither man had eaten in twenty-four hours because of case work.

But John had made up his mind that today—yes, today—they would go out on the main road. Not in London, mind you. They'd stay on side streets, sure, but it was time to get out of the parking lot. John buckled his seatbelt with a heavy sigh and reverted into soldier mode, doing his best to hide his fear.

"You'll do fine," he managed to get out.

Sherlock buckled his own belt and glared at John. "Do you want me to point out the nine signs I spot—no, ten—that tell me you're lying?"

"Just drive."

Sherlock put the car into drive but immediately returned it to park. "I forgot my coat. You'll have to drive us back."

John turned off the air conditioning. "You're fine. Go on, now."

The detective paused, searching for a new excuse. "We could talk about my childhood. Visit Mycroft? Talk about your latest girlfriend?"

"Sherlock." John patted him on the shoulder and turned to face him. "It's fine. You've made progress. I wouldn't be letting you drive me on the main road if I thought we were at risk." Sherlock said nothing. "You're old enough to learn. I don't know why you haven't yet."

"My hard drive, John. This is…"

"Pointless, yes. So you've said."

The men sat in ornery silence. "I…You know, I have tried before. Once."

John waited. He'd long ago learned not to prod.

"My father taught Mycroft. Apparently he had it down right away. Only took him an hour to have everything perfect." Sherlock spoke with no emotion or disdain. He was simply relaying fact. "He was busy, anyway, so I understand why he asked Mycroft to teach me instead."

John held his breath. He'd never heard Sherlock speak of his father. He wasn't sure if the man was even alive.

"I didn't want Mycroft to teach me, which is odd." Sherlock's eyebrows collided. "I still haven't figured that one out. I mean, he's an idiot, but he could have taught me."

"Sentiment," John murmured.

"What?"

"Well, I mean…It's normal for a teenager to want his dad to teach him things. I understand why you made yourself fail with Mycroft, but…" John waited until he had eye contact. "That doesn't matter anymore. I'm teaching you now. Alright? I know I'm not your dad, but…well, I'm just saying I'm here. You know? Your dad isn't, but I am. I always will be." He cleared his throat. "So we might as well learn now."

Sherlock frowned and thought for a moment. "I'm not sentimental."

"Yes you are." John smiled and looked at the phone, wondering if Sherlock was just stalling. "You just won't admit it because you don't understand it."

Sherlock paused and, after a small nod, put the car into drive. "Left or right?"

John tried to hide his smile. "Your choice."


	8. Swimming Lessons (Again)

They would try again…

…unless Sherlock had anything to say about it.

Which he did. Of course. The detective sat, not on the edge of the pool, but as far back against the wall as he could physically manage. His back was crammed into the wall tiles and, despite John's protests, he was still fully clothed. It was a miracle he'd been dragged down to the pool to begin with.

He looked over at the spot—that spot, right at the deep end—where Moriarty had first made himself known. Then he looked a few steps forward, where he once found John bomb-rigged and willing to give his life for Sherlock, despite them only knowing each other a short time. His gaze eventually met the pool, the ice-cold goo that he refused—no, no, no—to enter.

John had jumped in like a boy on the first day of summer. The room was empty and most of the lights, other than those in the pool's water, were off. No one would interrupt the middle-aged doctor teaching the middle-aged detective how to swim at one in the morning.

"Come in on this end," John tried. "It's only two feet deep."

Sherlock shook his head and pushed closer—if that was possible—towards the wall. He wished John would just give the whole thing up, but getting him to do so required an explanation—one he wasn't willing to give. "I'll just watch," he managed.

John crossed his arms and laid them on the pool's edge. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"Why you're afraid of the water."

"Because I'm not."

"No, of course not. You just really like that wall."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You went into the lake a few weeks ago because you weren't thinking." John eased himself out of the pool and wrapped one towel around his waist and used a second to dry his face and hair. He walked over and stood a few steps in front of Sherlock. "Once you knew what you were doing, you freaked out. I don't—"

"Move!" Sherlock jumped at his own voice. John was standing right where he had stood that one night; this, mixed with the hazy blue water behind him, was too much to bear.

John froze, trying to analyze the detective's face. He stopped wiping himself dry and, slowly, stepped towards Sherlock. He put his hand out as though approaching a scared stray. "Alright. Now what was that?" He crouched down, and forced eye contact. "Sherlock."

"You almost died there," Sherlock struggled. "So did I."

"You mean Moriarty? Sherlock, he's not here. We're—"

"I know that, John. I'm not stupid." He blinked a few times, not really understanding why tears were forming. "There's too much death here. Let's go."

"I was the one tied to a bomb, Sherlock. If I can handle it, so can you. If you're just trying to get out of swimming—"

"I'm not just trying to get out of it! I'm trying not to die!"

John waited. He'd dealt with outbursts like this before, but never…

"Sherlock, you're not going to drown. I won't let you."

_I won't let you. _Mycroft had said the same thing as both Holmes boys stood, soaked, at the edge of the waters. "John, what if…"

"What, Sherlock?"

"What if I…What if I try to?"

…

John had almost carried Sherlock home. The man was such a wreck—was this the great Sherlock Holmes?—that he could hardly stand on his own. But they'd managed, and John placed Sherlock on the couch before withdrawing to the kitchen to grab tissues and tea.

He didn't ever, ever want to see Sherlock cry again. It was the oddest sight he'd ever seen; this individual, so stoic and confident…well, John hadn't thought he could cry. He felt guilty for thinking so, because that's probably what all the bullies had thought, too. _Sherlock probably didn't have feelings_.

"Sherlock." John sat next to him and was surprised—stunned—when Sherlock hugged him and cried into his shoulder. They'd only hugged for the first time a few days earlier; was this a normal thing now? John tried not to think about it and simply hugged back.

They sat through sniffled silence for a few minutes before Sherlock laid his head in John's lap in defeat. John gently played with his hair; he imagined he'd do the same for a heartbroken daughter. "Sherlock, why would you try to drown? Are you…" It took effort to say the word. "Are you suicidal?"

Sherlock said nothing for a moment; then: "I don't think so. I was. I tried…with water…"

"Oh, Sherlock." John laid his hand on the detective's shoulder. "I'm…I'm so sorry. I'll never force you to swim again. I promise. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head awkwardly. "I was low, John. Mycroft…stopped me." He bit his lip and sat up, giving John teary eye contact. "I don't want to die."

"Then why would you—"

"Getting in the water might…I don't know, what if it brings up feelings? What if…What if I return to that state? I can't. If I drown…"

John crossed his legs and turned to directly face his best friend. "Sherlock, listen to me. You're not who you used to be. You thought you were useless? You thought no one cared about you? I don't care if it was true then, because it's not true now. I…I care about you. More than anything. And you're helping people—you're catching murderers and solving robberies—so I'd say you aren't useless. You're stronger than you think." John grabbed his hand and held it firmly. It wasn't romantic, it wasn't sexual. It was a friend's reassuring touch. "You won't try to hurt yourself, because that's not who you are anymore."

Sherlock looked away and immediately—impressively—reverted back to the stoic detective. "No. It's not." He cleared his throat and stood. "I'm going to bed."

"Sherlock." John reached for his arm but only got a sleeve. "Hey. You aren't who you used to be, but that doesn't mean that what you are now is stone. You're still human. You still have emotions. We can work through this."

Sherlock pulled away. That's what he always did, wasn't it? Pulled away? "I can manage on my own, thanks." He grabbed his violin and headed for his bedroom.

"We need to talk about what happened to you that time. With Mycroft," John said, but he wasn't sure he was heard. Sherlock was already down the hall.

The detective stood alone in the hallway. John's care was… new. Frightening. What was he supposed to do about it? Why had his emotion—his emotion—gotten the better of him? It wasn't natural. John didn't need to see that side of him.

So no. Not yet. He couldn't talk about it yet.


	9. Cooking Lessons (Again)

Normally, when the doctor woke up, he showered, put on his robe, made a cup of tea, and read the newspaper. This routine, up to the second half of the reading, was normally completed in solitude. If Sherlock was up, he was _still_ up—never having gone to bed—and was so focused on a case that he didn't say a word, much less show any sign of true consciousness.

This morning, though, when John stepped out of the shower, Sherlock was simply _up_, sitting in his chair, reading the paper for himself.

"You slept?"

"Two hours."

John said nothing and made himself a cup of tea. "Do we need to have a talk again?"

Sherlock put the news down and made his way to the kitchen. The last thing he wanted was another lecture from his doctor about "poor eating habits" and "lack of sleep." He was fully clothed, fully cognitive. John didn't know what to do with it, so he said nothing, sipping on his tea and sitting at the kitchen table.

Sherlock took his coffee and smiled, smugly, when John jumped at the toast he hadn't known was cooking. Watching with curiosity, John was silent as Sherlock grabbed a knife, stick of butter, and a plate. The detective cut each piece of bread into four squares and, to John's absolutely horror, used half the butter on the eight small pieces.

"Is that your normal breakfast?" John leaned back in his chair and moaned. "Sherlock, I get up early enough as it is. Don't make me wake up earlier to babysit you."

"Babysit?" Sherlock turned his back and plopped one of the squares into his mouth.

John grabbed the toast and scraped off as much butter as he could. "Yes, Sherlock, babysit. It's enough work getting you to eat a decent dinner or get a full night's rest. It's a wonder you're not four hundred pounds."

Sherlock took the plate and threw it—along with the bread, knife, and remaining stick—into the trash can. "To answer your question," he said, walking away, "no, John, that's not my normal breakfast."

John let Sherlock leave and tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Sherlock wasn't sensitive about his weight—he had no reason to be—and, though cracks about his health habits were annoying, he'd never thrown a temper tantrum before.

He let it go, knowing that it was just Sherlock—he'd never be understandable—and picked up his mug when he smelt something burning.

…..

Sherlock heard a small knock on his bedroom door and ignored it, closing his eyes and lying back on the bed. John came in anyway, of course, placing two blackened scrambled eggs on the bed.

"You were making breakfast?"

Sherlock didn't answer and, rather juvenilely, rolled over to face the opposite wall.

"You were trying to cook. Hmm?" John sat on the bed and sighed. "Sherlock. Hey, look at me." Nothing. Fine. "Thank you…for trying. Honestly. I'm sure they would have turned out fine if we hadn't argued." He paused. "The toast turned out well, didn't it? Other than the four tons of fat?"

Sherlock groaned. "John, it's five in the morning. I know we've been flat mates for a while, but I'd appreciate some privacy." When John didn't move, he sat up. "They're not _that _burnt."

"To a crisp, Sherlock." John smiled, but it quickly faded when the joke wasn't appreciated. "I don't care about that. The butter, though. You'll die before you're forty, Sherlock."

"Don't worry about my health."

"I do. I will."

"Why?"

John's voice caught in his throat, and he was forced to clear it. He couldn't—wouldn't—tell Sherlock that he spent hours wondering how to get him to eat healthier or sleep more. How he did everything in his power to keep junk food out of the house (except for emergencies, when Sherlock wouldn't eat anything else). How he talked to other doctors at the clinic for advice. He couldn't explain it. He just…well, he just cared. And that meant he'd worry.

"I don't know," he finally said.

"Then you cook from now on."

…

The next morning, John woke up to the smell of coal and cigarette smoke. Before he'd thrown the covers off, he was already screaming. "If you're touching a stove or cigarette, you're dead. Either way. I don't know what you think you're doing, Sherlock, but I won't have—"

He stopped at the kitchen door. The trash can was overflowing with discarded eggs from countless attempts; the floor was covered in eggshell and yolk. The stovetop was blackened from…well how had he managed that? The fridge was ajar, revealing vials, eels (hadn't he thrown those out?), and—no, it couldn't be—three feet.

But John couldn't care less about all that. His eyes fell immediately on the small, porcelain plate on the counter. Seven squares were dripping—quite literally—with butter, but one was bare.

"I know, I know. I'll clean it up," Sherlock was saying. "Really, John, you shouldn't be so uptight. I'm working on it, alright? I won't try anymore." He fell silent when he saw the way John was looking at him. "What?"

"Well. At least you're making progress."

"No, John. No, I'm done cooking. Understand? I haven't made an ounce of _progress._"

John shook his head and thought about how to explain that…that it was things like that, the little things, that told him Sherlock actually cared. When he burned a hole in the carpet and bought a chair to cover up the spot. When he tried to learn to cook even though he hated the thought of it. When he pretended to drive when he thought John wasn't looking. When he buttered seven squares instead of eight because he knew John worried. Things like that, well, they made all the difference in the world.

No, Sherlock was wrong. He had been making very good progress, indeed.


	10. Fetching Lessons (Again)

John doesn't want to talk about it.

No one does, really. It's odd enough, that's for sure. It wasn't surprising that Sherlock hated puppies (or was scared of them, as John assumed). No, what came as a shock was when Sherlock arrived home with a newly selected pet.

He came in giddy (if Sherlock could ever be) and sat the cage on the desk. John looked up from his laptop and stared in confusion. "What's this?"

"Our new pet. You said you wanted one."

"I wanted a dog, Sherlock. Not a…what is it?"

"Hedgehog." Sherlock beamed and bent down to look into the cage. The creature ignored him and continued sniffing around his new home. "It's it brilliant, John? Absolutely Brilliant." He moved the creature and held him gently in his arms.

John cleared his throat, doing everything in his power to make sense of it. "You want a hedgehog?"

"I don't _want_ a hedgehog, John, I _have _one." He shook his head in disappointment. "Marvelous, isn't it?"

John stood and took the hedgehog in his hands, placing him back into his cage. "No, Sherlock, it's not marvelous. Take him back to the store."

Sherlock gave his puppy-dog face, an expression John had only seen once before. He'd come home to find Sherlock creating something in the kitchen that looked like death-rays in action films. Sherlock wouldn't say what it was—simply an experiment—but his face begged John to let him continue. He hadn't.

"If we get a pet, I'll end up being the only one to take care of it." John shut the cage door and sat, doing his best to ignore any pleas. "I could handle that with a dog, but not this rodent."

"But—"

"You'll be bored with it by the end of the week. No."

"It's nocturnal," Sherlock tried. "I'll talk to it instead of you. You can get more sleep."

"You'd have to feed it."

"I will."

"And clean its cage."

"Of course. I'll even fetch, alright?"

"No, Sherlock, hedgehogs don't…" John sighed and turned to his laptop. He typed for a few minutes before standing to grab his coat. "Come on. We're taking it back."

"John—"

"No buts."

"You've given me no reason. Please, John. I'll take care of it. I need something else to keep me entertained."

John sighed and read the words on his laptop screen. _Hedgehogs live an average of only four years in domestic homes, but many die sooner from cancer and cardiovascular disease. _John had just seen Sherlock's reaction to losing Irene; he didn't want to see him getting attached and lose something all over again.

But he was adamant…and he really, oddly, cared for the thing. He didn't ask for much.

John sighed. "Alright, we can keep it. But one strike and it's gone. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded and looked at his new friend. "What shall we call him? John?"

"I don't know."

"No, I was suggesting it. John. He reminds me of you, oddly enough." Sherlock nodded and decided this to be the best answer. "Yes. John the second."

John—human John—rolled his eyes, hoping Sherlock would grow tired of John II before its funeral.


	11. Hugging Lessons (Again)

John woke up with no alarm and stretched. It was one of his rare days off; Sherlock was caseless and the clinic didn't need a helping hand. He stretched out one leg, then the other, before rolling to his side and nearly falling of the bed when, to his surprise, he found Sherlock staring at him.

"What the he—"

"Good morning to you, too." Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and squinted. "It's eleven. Why did you sleep this late?"

"It's my day off, jerk." He threw a pillow and sat up. "Get out."

"I don't have any cases."

"That's why I'm sleeping."

Sherlock frowned and leaned back. "The day's nearly half over. I thought we could—"

"No." John shook his head and stretched his arms. "We're not phoning Lestrade, we're not going to the morgue, and we're not listening to the police radio. Take a day off. Learn to relax."

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down. "I just thought we could go to the park again."

"The park?" John tilted his head, wishing he had Sherlock's skillset—though, either way, he could tell that Sherlock was bashful. "Why?"

"Research must help, right?"

"Research? What are we—" John shook his head and laid himself back down. A week ago, they'd travelled to a park to find a couple hugging. Sherlock was disgusted by the act but, by the end of the day, he'd learned the trade. He hadn't brought it up since. "You want to research hugging. Sherlock, for the last time, you know how."

"No, I've been looking it up. I'm not doing it right."

John paused, thrown off by the bizarre situation. "Okay. We'll talk about this in a minute. Go wait in the living room." Sherlock began to protest but obeyed after John manifested the inner soldier's glare.

The soldier got dressed and sat at the edge of his bed for a moment before reluctantly heading to the living room. When he arrived, Sherlock was rummaging through his desk drawers.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock jumped and faced him. "Nothing."

"You're searching for cigarettes, you little—"

"I'm frustrated! Give me a break." Sherlock flung himself down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. "I don't get it, John. How could I not understand? People do it every day."

John almost brought up how most people could also cook, clean, swim, and play fetch, but he decided against it. "You do get it. Remember? We hugged just last week."

Sherlock shook his head and pulled out a magazine amidst the clutter of newspapers and case papers. He flipped it open and began reading. "The surefire way to know if you're doing it right is if it's reciprocated." He flung it shut and pushed it to the side.

Biting his tongue, John grabbed the magazine, an obscure preteen publication. He tried not to laugh. "This is your source?"

He glared. "There's more evidence than that. Either way, I'm doing it wrong."

John sat next to him and cleared his throat. "Sherlock. I haven't hugged you back because it's…well, it's awkward. Not because of you. Flat mates don't usually do that sort of thing. Your hug was…good." He cleared his throat once more and wiped his palms on his pants. "I don't get why it's a big deal."

Sherlock looked down and didn't say anything for a minute; then: "Anderson said it's because you don't like being around me."

John leaned back and crossed his eyes. "Excuse me? And why were you talking to Anderson?"

"I wasn't," Sherlock said defensively. "I talked to Lestrade about it. I don't know why, I was just confused, and I figured he'd be a good person to talk to about it. I didn't know Anderson was right behind us."

"And he said…"

"He said your lack of reciprocation was probably a sign that you were looking for a new flat mate."

John bit his lip and stood. Grabbing his coat and keys, he looked back at Sherlock and nodded. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you—"

"Wait here. I won't be long."

…

John returned home an hour later. He removed his coat and sat in his chair, reading his newspaper as though the day's events had never occurred. Sherlock said nothing about it, knowing better, but he was worried.

The next day—thank heavens—they were called out on a case. When they arrived, Lestrade greeted them and Anderson—with a black eye and a bandaged nose—hid in the background.

Sherlock, mouth agape, looked over at John, who was staring into space innocently. "You didn't—"

John shrugged and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, dragging him directly in front of the inspectors. "What do we have, Lestrade?"

"Triple murder. Think you guys could have a look?"

"Well, I'm sure Sherlock would be glad to." John smiled, turned to Sherlock and— with no hesitation—hugged his flat mate. "Let me know if you need any help, alright?" When he let go, it was hard to tell whether Sherlock or Anderson was redder. It was probably a tie, but only the consulting detective had a small, distinctive smile.


	12. Birthday Lessons (Again)

Sherlock walked up the stairs to 221B at 4am on March 2nd, covered in rain and dirt. John would kill him; he was still getting over his sickness, and chasing criminal masterminds alone probably wasn't considered ample treatment; his chest already felt compressed and his arms were heavy.

He paused at the living room door, knowing John would be sitting in his chair with that you're-so-dead-you-have-no-idea look on his face. They hadn't talked much in the last few days; Mycroft had been over every day since his birthday as punishment, and John was still upset that Sherlock had injected himself with the flu in order to get out of a birthday celebration (though Sherlock didn't see why it was such a big deal).

Opening the door with a sigh, Sherlock flipped on the light and jumped. John was indeed sitting in his chair, scowling, but behind him sat Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson.

He tried to run but John was up and grabbing his ear before he knew it. "Look at you," he was mumbling. "You still have a fever, 'Lock." He dragged Sherlock into the kitchen and sat him down, wetting a towel and wiping mud off his face. "Really? This is how you come home? And look, you've dragged dirt all over Mrs. Hudson's carpet."

Sherlock glanced at his guests. All three were staring. "I caught them, though."

"Yes, and I'm sure all the criminals nice and clean in their jail cells." John sighed and removed Sherlock's shoes. "Do you have any idea what time it is? We've been waiting since ten. You could have called."

"Why are they here?"

"You know why."

"Make them leave."

"No, Sherlock, we're doing this."

"I'm still sick."

John's eyebrows perked up. "Oh? I didn't think sick people did what you did tonight. Now go change into something presentable. We already ate, but there's still cake."

"I don't like—"

"I wasn't asking."

Sherlock retreated into his room as John returned to his chair. Lestrade was staring. "Amazing," the inspector said. How did you train him so well?"

"What?" John rubbed his temples. Maybe this was a bad idea. He was trying to be nice—to make Sherlock's birthday special, even if it was a few days late—but it was as difficult as leaving Mycroft and Sherlock in the same room for more than two minutes.

"How do you get Sherlock to listen to you like that?" Lestrade laughed to himself and leaned back against the couch. "I can't get him to do anything. No one can."

"You think he listens to me? Look at what he did tonight. I have no control over him."

Mrs. Hudson found herself tidying up the coffee table and stopped herself. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, John. Just yesterday I tried to get him to eat some soup while you were at work. He refused; said he wouldn't eat anything unless his doctor made him."

John began to reply but stopped himself when Sherlock came in. The detective sat down and tried to suppress a cough; John draped the old orange shock blanket over him as he went to the kitchen to grab cake.

Everyone accepted the dessert except, of course, Sherlock. John sat next to him and leaned into his ear. "Just try to have fun, please. They're here for you," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded with a few coughs and shivered. "Fine. I just don't feel well."

"Don't play that game again. You've been running around all night."

"And I admit I shouldn't have." Sherlock wrapped the blanket closer and stood. "I'm going to lie down for a moment." He began walking away, but John grabbed the back of his belt and dragged him back on the couch.

"Jawwwn," Sherlock whined. "Please, I don't feel well at all." He shook his head, leaning it into John's chest in a coughing fit.

"Oh, just let him sleep," Mrs. Hudson said. "He's obviously not enjoying himself. Look at the poor dear; he's miserable." She took the plates from Molly and Lestrade. "Come on, dearies. We'll finish these downstairs while John gets Sherlock into bed."

John muttered his goodbyes and moved Sherlock's face from his chest. He was covered in sweat. "Is it just your chest?"

"Stomach." Sherlock stretched himself over the couch and let his head rest in John's lap. "Make it go away."

John laughed and absentmindedly played with Sherlock's curls. "It doesn't work that way. You were getting better, but you just had to go out tonight. I'd imagine you'll be bedridden for a few more days." Sherlock groaned as John pulled a blanket over him. "Stop. It'll be fine."

"No more birthdays."

"No more birthdays." John sighed and let himself relax into the couch. "How about we make a deal? You don't inject yourself anymore, and I don't throw any more parties. But you have to accept one present."

John grabbed a small box from the coffee table and placed it in front of Sherlock's face. The detective wrapped his hands around it and stared, confused. "I already opened my present. The key."

"Yeah, well, that didn't work out. I thought I'd try again."

Sherlock slowly unwrapped the gift with shaking hands. The box was empty. "I don't understand."

John grinned. "I've hidden Mycroft's key. It might be in the flat; I may have given it to Mrs. Hudson, Molly, or Greg. You'll have to deduce. Three attempts. If you find it by the end of the week, you can throw it away. If you don't, Mycroft gets it back."

Sherlock tried to sit up, but John pushed him back down. "No, no. Rest. The game starts in the morning. I'll make breakfast and you can interrogate me for a few hours before you start looking. We'll take it slow. You have time to get better. Alright?

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. It was…a nice thought." He snuggled into a fetal position. "But it's on Lestrade's key chain."

"How—"

"I know what that key looks like. There's a distinctive chip on the upper right corner. He had them out earlier." Sherlock stretched once more and groaned. "Really, John, you ought to know that my deduction skills don't waver, sickness or heath." He coughed uncontrollably and sighed. "But thank you. As far as sentiment goes, it was lovely."

John moved Sherlock's head to face his own. "Good try. That key's a replicate. You have two more attempts." He patted the detective and stood. "Come, Sherlock. Have more faith in me."

Sherlock moved into fetal position and grinned, secretly grateful for a real challenge. And for birthdays.


	13. Driving Lessons (Finale)

John had heard of mothers who woke up when something was wrong with their children. They'd wake to find their infant suffocating in bed, or their daughter crying. Several weeks after moving into 221B, John gained the same instinct.

It usually happened about once a week. John's body would jolt him awake, and—at first—he'd remember his war days. But then, quickly, he'd remember the quirky detective living a bedroom down and sigh. He'd climb out of bed, usually already cursing, and find Sherlock performing some scientific experiment that resembled a tribal ritual. On occasion, Sherlock wouldn't be in the kitchen; it was during these nights that John panicked—after checking the rest of the flat—because the detective was almost definitely getting shot at somewhere in downtown London.

It was one of those nights. John threw on his robe in anger, but no one heard. Sherlock wasn't home. John ran a hand through his hair and checked the flat once more, just to be sure, before calling Lestrade. No, the police force hadn't called him in. No, they hadn't heard from him. John hung up and dressed quickly (he had a premade outfit set out just for occasions such as these) and headed out the door.

He called Sherlock's phone four times on the way down the stairs. Any other time, he would have smiled at Sherlock's voicemail ("Sherlock Holmes. Don't be boring.") but not now. Taking out his keys, he walked to his car and—

—it wasn't there. He turned and banged on the front door until Mrs. Hudson—all complaints—opened the door.

"John, it's four in the morning. You're just now coming in?"

"Sherlock's missing, and so is the car." John took a deep breath and sat on the stairs, knowing full well that panic never did any good. Okay. Sherlock was probably…well, who knew? "Did you hear him leave?"

"No, dearie, I haven't heard a thing except the usual."

"He must have…what?" John tilted his head. "What's the usual?"

"Oh, you know." Mrs. Hudson sat next to John and wrapped her robe tightly around her shivering body. "The same old thing, always around two or three in the morning, at least twice a week. You know."

"Oh, you mean the violin." John shook his head and turned up his coat collar against the wind. "I'm sorry. I've been trying to get him to stop. It always keeps me up, too."

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows collided as she shook her head. "John, I'd never dream of asking him to stop. It's the sweetest thing that boy's ever done."

"Sweet?"

"Well, yes. I wish I had someone to calm me down during nightmares."

"I don't…" John coughed and, like being hit by a brick, realized what Sherlock had been doing for him. The visions of war were becoming more and more frequent; nothing he did would keep them off. But—apparently—Sherlock tried.

He pushed the thought away, along with his guilt, and stood as his car turned the corner.

Sherlock parallel parked the car, unbuckled, and rolled down the window. "John? What are you doing up?"

John approached the window and crossed his arms. "Care to explain?"

He pointed to a bag in the passenger seat containing two gallons of milk. "We were out."

"You don't have your license yet. Do you know how—"

"How did you know I was gone?" Sherlock climbed out and leaned against the car door. "You never wake up after three."

"I do when you're being an idiot. Get inside." He grabbed the milk and paused, looking at Mrs. Hudson. He took a deep breath. "You parked well, you know."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I was expecting a lecture, not a compliment."

"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."

Sherlock looked at him for a few moments with squinted eyes. John squirmed; he hated being deduced. His entire body froze as the detective's eyes scanned every nook, every secret and lie. Sherlock's eyebrows raised and his mouth opened in horror as his gaze moved to Mrs. Hudson. "You told him?"

She huffed. "How could you possibly—"

"That wasn't to leave our conversation."

John moved in between the two. "Mrs. Hudson, shouldn't you be getting off to bed? We'll be in shortly?" She willingly scattered off. "Sherlock, she didn't—"

"It wasn't her place."

"It wasn't your place to drive that car in the middle of the night. It wasn't your place to tell Lestrade that his wife's cheating on him. It wasn't your place to tell Mrs. Hudson that the bloke she likes is married. It wasn't your place to tell me that my sister was still drinking. And it definitely wasn't your place to try to comfort me during the night." He looked the detective in the eyes, a rare experience to captivate his entire attention. "But you don't know your place, and for that I'm grateful. Don't ever change, Sherlock."

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "It, um, wasn't anything."

"It was." John snatched the keys out of his hand. "But no more driving until you get the license, alright?"

Sherlock smirked and pulled out his wallet, producing a glistening card.

"When did—"

"I went down yesterday while you were out with Stanford." He opened the door and moved so John could enter first. "And I bought milk, John. I really thought you'd be more grateful."

John bit his lip, deciding to hold off on cutting comebacks for just a little while longer. It was the least he could do.


	14. Swimming Lessons (Finale)

Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes stood at the edges of the pool, facing one another with the clear liquid as a barrier. It was night, almost morning, and they'd been watching the unrelenting waves hit the wall for hours. John had offered—several times, actually—to postpone the event, but Sherlock was insistent. He would do this. Now.

Sherlock knelt and let the current brush against his knuckles. He was surprised at its warmth; the only water he remembered was harsh, taciturn film. John watched with patience, rarely muttering a word and always maintaining secure eye contact, silently wishing he was a more stable companion. Comfort, encouragement, peace—he wanted to offer it all, but he wasn't sure how. How could he communicate care to such a broken man?

That morning, Sherlock told all. How he had felt alone his entire life. How Mycroft and criminals weren't distraction enough. How he turned to drugs, to cutting. How he would have turned to sex if he weren't so untrusting of other people. How, at the fragile age of nineteen, he made the decision to end the pain. How it wasn't uncertainty in the days to come that frightened him, but the certainty that they would be spent, undeniably, alone.

But Mycroft was just as smart as his little brother, perhaps smarter, and knew what was coming. He kept constant surveillance on Sherlock until, one night, the makeshift alarm buzzed and he watched his brother descend to the family pool across the home. And, with the sort of determination governments wish all their employees had, he raced down and pulled—yanked—a nearly unconscious, fully lost boy out of the water. When Sherlock saw the pain on Mycroft's face, the pleading eyes and the strained lips, he knew he'd never forgive himself. No wonder he kept their relationship at arm's length.

Now, here, Sherlock was ready to move on. He wasn't ready to face Mycroft—not yet—but he was ready to shed this carnal fear. With trembling legs, he stood back up and took a deep breath, never breaking his gaze at John.

"What is water?" John said, breaking the silence.

"Hydrogen and oxygen," Sherlock answered.

John nodded approval. "Good. And what are those?"

"Elements."

"Elements. You have a chart in your room on those, don't you? I bet you can name off every one."

"Yes."

"I can't imagine you'd let something like that—something you hang on your wall and memorize with no effort—beat you. Can you?"

Sherlock shook his head, slowly, and swallowed. He took off his pants, watch, phone, and trousers, leaving only his boxers and wife-beater on. "If I—"

"You won't." John took a step back and surveyed the pool. Where Sherlock was standing wasn't more than six feet deep. He'd be fine, swimming or not, but that wasn't the point. This wasn't a swimming lesson. It was the final act in the play of overcoming the past. "But I'm here. I'll get you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, angry that a tear slipped through. "I can't forget, John. It will always be there."

"The point isn't to forget. It's to remember and move on, because you're strong enough."

Sherlock arched his back, remembering and clinging, bent his knees, hoping and releasing, and sprang himself into the water.

He wanted to panic, to call for John as the lukewarm liquid enveloped his body, but he resisted. He felt the bubbles travel up his side and to the surface and knew, suddenly, that he could do the same. Finding his footing, he propelled himself up and looked around.

John wasn't there. He looked around, curious, and realized—a bit late—that in his time spent underneath the surface he'd drifted into the middle of the twenty feet section. The edge was too far; he flailed, straining, and his left arm hit John directly in the nose.

John cursed and dragged him to the edge, throwing him over and letting his own blood drip into the water.

Sherlock leaned over, examining the wound; the nose was definitely broken. "John, I—"

John lifted a hand, demanding (and receiving) silence. "Are you okay?"

"Your nose—"

"That's not what I asked, Sherlock."

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." He found himself smiling and laughed, feeling some kind of weight lifting off his shoulders.

John glared, pulling himself onto the edge. "How is it that I'm always the one to get an injury during these things?"

Sherlock watched John pinch his nose and smiled. "I suppose the best doctors let themselves get hurt every once in a while for their patient's sake."

John smiled and rolled his eyes. "Every once in a while, huh?"

"Well. Some more than others."


End file.
